


From the frying pan to the fire

by Iolanfg



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, Greg is Sweet, Humor, M/M, Mycroft Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolanfg/pseuds/Iolanfg
Summary: @PaiaLovesPie wrote on Twitter, in #JustMystradeThoughts : Mycroft is at a charity function when a handsome man quickly comes up to him, hugs him and kisses him on the cheek, saying "Hello Dear." Then he anxiously whispers, "Just play along. *Please*"  And this came up.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 33
Kudos: 163
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions, Mystrade StoryTime, Mystrade is our Division





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/gifts).



> The characters belong to Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. The idea belongs to Paia.  
> After months of not being able to write a single comma, this will probably be reissued because it is not exactly what I wanted, but I still wanted to upload it. A gift to Paia for her great ideas, because thanks to them I feel like writing again.  
> English is not my first language, I'm sorry for any mistake. Thank you for reading.

Mycroft took longer than he needed to pour himself another drink. Not that I thought the second drink would leave a better taste than the first. But it would free him for a few more minutes of a boring conversation with even more boring people.  
Not that he thought these benefics acts weren't necessary. Raising money for the orphans for the nation's fallen agents was not only a good deed, it was a moral obligation.  
But he wondered why Uncle Rudy had insisted that he attend personally, instead of letting him send his usual check. "Take it as a favor to your favorite uncle. After all, I'm getting older. Never know how many parties more the someone my age can enjoy  
someone my age has left..." said the old trickster.  
He decided to move away from the alcohol table before any of the few people who knew him personally could start a new rumor about him when someone bumped into he.  
It took a few seconds for his brain, considered to be one of the fastest and most agile in the country, to notice that what it wasn’t that someone had bumped into him, but that he was being hugged.  
To the shock of being hugged by a stranger, it was not necessary to be able to see the man well to know that he was a stranger, no one who knew him would ever dare to hug him, added the shock of being kissed on the cheek.  
Mycroft's sleepy brain told him that he had to get away from the stranger when the man, in an anxious voice, whispered in his ear, "Just play along. Please," sending a chill down his spine.  
Mycroft placed his hand on the man's bicep to get away from him when he heard a voice, this time familiar, behind the man's back.  
"Wow, so there you are!"  
Mycroft looked at his uncle, ready to tell him that whatever that was, it wasn't what it seemed, when the stranger put his arm around his waist, turning to the older man, who gave them a confused look.  
"Mr. Verner, I'm sorry to have left you alone. He could finally come!" The stranger turned again to Mycroft, with a pleading look. "You know, dear, in the end I couldn't help talking about you at work. So much so that they thought you didn't exist, since they could never meet you. Let me introduce you to one of my bosses, Mr. Rudy Verner."   
The stranger turned to Rudy again, with a nervous smile." Mr. Verner, let me introduce you to my fiancé..."  
Mycroft looked at his uncle, holding a smile as he thought of what a bad liar the man was, who hadn't even thought of a name for his supposed fiancé. More intrigued and amused than he had felt in a long time, he stepped forward, extending a hand to Rudy, with a look that said he didn't know what it was about either, and a smile that warned him to stay out of it, why he think to find out.  
"Smith. Mike Smith."  
Rudy, amused, shook her hand, with a look that said he expected explanations later.  
"Well. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Now, I'll let you enjoy your evening. See you Monday, Lestrade. My pleasure, Mr. Smith."  
The two men stared at the man as he walked away, the hand of the stranger still on Mycroft's waist, who had to take a small step to let go.  
Turning to him, the stranger gave him an embarrassed smile.  
"I... I'm sorry, mate. Thank you so much for that, you can't imagine the enormous favour you've done me." Already face to face, Mycroft could see what the man looked like: a square jaw, deep brown eyes and beautiful dense dark brown hair dotted with some silver strands. He wondered how it would feel to sink his hand into it. "I'm Lestrade, by the way. DI Greg Lestrade. Mike, right?" Suddenly, the band started playing, more motivated than talented, startling him and making him laugh nervously. "Sorry, I'm... I'm not used to this. I don't really know what I'm doing here. I mean it's for a good cause and that's, but not exactly my thing... "   
Mycroft nodded  
"That makes two of us, then."  
"Really?" Greg cast a naughty look at the garden door, and the drink table. "It doesn't look like we're needed around here, so how about we grab a bottle, sneak out into the garden and get to know each other better. We can talk about our sad fate and have a few laughs at all these snobs."  
Without waiting for an answer, Greg took a full bottle, two glasses and disappeared out the door. Not quite sure why, Mycroft followed him, ignoring the stares on his back.  
Greg had found them a quiet place where they could smoke and drink in peace, watching without being seen. Mycroft shuddered slightly at the thought of sitting on the floor in his tux, but he imitated the man and sat down beside him.  
Greg had already taken off his jacket and tie, and held out the bottle to him, smiling.  
"Yes, this is better..."  
They sat down together, laughing, without knowing very well that  
what, as they passed the bottle and the cigarettes, talking about the awful music of the band and the people at the party.  
The conversation between them was easy, with jokes and anecdotes from their lives, although it was mostly Greg who shared them, while Mycroft relaxed and listened to him in fascination, while Greg talked about his job, his life in a working class neighborhood, and the little any respect which deserved him those hypocrites who threw annual parties to show what good people they were by giving their crumbs to the needy in suits that cost a month's salary, while spending the rest of the year ignoring them at best and exploiting them at worst.  
Mycroft told him that he was an unimportant officer of the transportation department, and Greg assumed that he was there, as he was, because of the obligation to represent his department.  
Time passed without him noticing, chatting a bit about everything.  
Finally, Mycroft asked:  
"Well, are you going to tell me what happened in there?"  
"Oh, yeah, right. Thanks again for that, you really saved my live. I usually work at the Yard, Homicide Division, but three months ago a case came across an MI5 investigation and I've been working with them. That's where I met Verner. Not a bad guy, for a rich bureaucrat. Apparently he liked me and decided I shouldn't be alone."  
Mycroft looked at him, arching an eyebrow, wondering what the hell Uncle Rudy had done this time and whether the man was really so bored with his career that he wanted to get into another love affair at seventy-five. He was selfishly jealous. Greg could be his grandson!  
"Oh, yeah?"  
"Yes. He decided that tonight I should meet his nephew." Greg laughed, while Mycroft choked on the champagne. Greg patted him, but kept smiling, unbelieving. " His nephew, the infamous Mycroft Holmes. Have you heard of him?"  
Unable to speak, Mycroft simply shook his head, without looking at Greg.  
"I've never seen him, but he has a reputation for being a stuffy, manipulative snob. The Iceman, they call him, can you imagine? I've seen really nasty, powerful guys shake just at the mention of his name. And that crazy Verner wanted me to have a date with such a jerk. Thank God I saw you there alone and now..."  
Mycroft knew he had to get up, angry, tell Greg who he really was and wish him luck in his new assignment in Siberia. I would show him how evil Mycroft Holmes really was. On the other hand, he'd never felt so comfortable and relaxed with anyone. Greg was smart, funny and honest. Qualities he didn't usually find in his life. And he was beautiful... The kind of person who would never spend five minutes alone with him voluntarily. Suddenly he felt empty.  
"Mike, are you okay? I didn't scare you, did I?"  
Greg's voice brought him back to reality. Mike, he thought. Yeah, tonight it could be Mike. He could spend a nice night with a nice man who didn't see him as a threat or a means to an end. I'd teach Greg a lesson another day.  
"Yeah, yeah, just doing some thinking, sorry, you were saying?"  
Greg looked at him, with a loving mockery painted on his face.  
"I was saying that now I have to make it up to you for saving my night. I can't believe how lucky I was to find you, and to be having a great night instead of suffering to Holmes. Do you think I'll make it up to you with dinner tomorrow night? There's a good restaurant near my house... if it's not too much trouble, of course."  
Mycroft, frozen for a moment, wondered if it was all really a joke, unable to believe that anyone would want to spend time with him. He reacted as he saw Greg's face fall, his cheerful, cheeky smile wavering for the first time.  
"Oh, yes, of course, I'd love that."  
Greg smiled again, and the little voice in his head repeating that he should say who he really was died. 'Tomorrow,' he thought, 'Tomorrow I'll tell you, and maybe, with a little luck, you won't hate me. Maybe, with a lot of luck, we'll laugh about this one day.'


	2. Chapter 2

Six months. Six months ago that Mycroft had met DI Gregory Lestrade. Best six months of his life - Greg was funny, cheeky, kind and loving.  
'and he hates you'  
Mycroft silenced the annoying voice in his head as he threw away his three-piece suit, ready to stop being Mycroft, the Iceman, the boring bureaucrat, and become Mike, a simply transport ministry official.  
He had intended to tell him the night they went to dinner, the day after the gala. But Greg had had a bad day.  
\- We've been taken off the investigation. Apparently, this Holmes guy thinks he can break up the crime ring on his own, and there's no need to involve more officers. Stupid asshole. He shows up out of nowhere and thinks he already knows more than anyone else - snorted Greg, outraged - but anyway, the upside is that I won't have to work with that asshole and I can spend a lovely evening with a lovely guy what I met yesterday. Let's leave the Iceman in his cave and enjoy the evening.  
Mycroft forced a smile, taking a sip of wine.  
It wasn't exactly true that he'd decided to remove the Yard agents from the investigation.  
What was true was that, after returning from abroad and catching up on the investigation, he had deduced who they were, when he planned to act, how and where the terrorists were hiding.  
In fact, they were being arrested while having dinner. It had taken him fourteen minutes and twenty-four seconds to put the pieces together.It would have been nine minutes and thirty-five seconds if Uncle Rudy hadn't been continually interrupting with questions about what happened during the party and with comments about the DI inspector, not all of them the kind of comments he would play in front his mother.  
So he thought the best thing to do was to save his confession for the next day and make Greg enjoy his first night off in months.  
However, the next day, when they met for lunch, Greg was outraged by the ministry's note thanking DI Lestrade and all the Yard's agents for their invaluable help in the investigation and explaining how the criminals had been found and locked up.  
\- 'Invaluable help' ,ja. Actually what he means is 'look at me, I'm a genius and you're all useless and you've spent months running around in circles while I've managed to do it in a few hours' you smug prick. Without our research, I would have achieved absolutely nothing! But hey, let's stop talking about that idiot, how was your day? A lot of parking tickets?  
Mycroft smiled, cutting his sandwich. He really thought that sending a thank-you note would be considered a good detail, and that with that gesture 'Mycroft' would earn points with Greg. And, well, while the investigation helped, it was looking at the logo on the grocery bag in the trunk of one of the suspects that gave him the clue. Obvious detail he were kind enough not to point out in your note...  
And a few days later, when Greg seemed to have forgotten the existence of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock appeared at one of his crime scenes, and...  
Well, if he sensed earlier that the DI didn't like Mycroft Holmes, I now had no doubt that the DI would love to strangle him. After sticking chopsticks in his eyes, perhaps.  
\- And then I was summoned to the superintendent's office. There was a woman who didn't take her eyes off her mobile, the arrogant prick's assistant. Not only did we have to let free the loudmouth go, but 'he is requested to be allowed Sherlock Holmes to assist of the Yard in the investigation'. As if we needed help from a boring little boy with a too loose tongue!. It's 'requested', as if the almighty Mycroft Holmes could be denied anything! Well, he'll be lucky if  
one of my guys doesn't shoot the spoiled brat before the end of the week!

The official choked on the drink, something that was beginning to become a habit when Greg was talking about Mycroft. So much preparation with MI5 to die by drowning in cheap Tesco wine. Rudy would be feeling disappointed. "Or funny. Never know with the old crazy", he thought.

When he learned that Greg had arrested Sherlock, he thought her insufferable, overly intelligent little brother had discovered their relationship and was only looking to torture him.  
But no. Sherlock didn't really know who the DI was or that he knew Mycroft.  
He was genuinely interested in the case.So much so, that he even promised to give up drugs if his brother interceded and was allowed to work on the case. The idea of giving Sherlock something to keep him from self-destructing had been too tempting to pass up.  
Anthea had looked at him strangely when he told him that they wouldn't need the warehouse to question the DI, nor would they need information about the man. He trusted Gregory more than he had ever trusted anyone.  
And the months had flown by: by day Mycroft, in his three-piece suit, with his umbrella-sword-pistol-shooter of tranquilizer darts, and his expressionless face was the Iceman, giving orders, shaking down dictators, eliminating terrorists. At night, with no tie or vest, rolled-up shirt sleeves, his easy smile and sarcastic sense of humor, it was Mike, the shy, soft-eyed official who enjoyed his movie nights hugging Greg, the forgotten film as they engaged in long sessions of kissing on the couch.  
Sex with Greg didn't look like anything he'd ever experienced before. It didn't matter if it was passionate and quick or if it was hours of slow, gentle strokes, every night felt special.  
He had never felt more cared for, protected and loved.  
Not that either of they would had ever uttered the word. Greg had been through a bad marriage and an even worse divorce, and he didn't want to rush into it. And Mycroft had never felt happier and more terrified at the same time.  
He had never let anyone know the man who lived under the mask, he had never felt so close to anyone, and that someone had come into his life by chance, running away from everything that Mycroft stood for.  
Running from Mycroft himself, to be exact.  
Every morning he told himself that this was the day, rehearsing his speech in the car on his way to work, or in some tedious meeting while boring and repetitive threats to use nuclear bombs flew around him.  
Every night he told himself that it was okay to wait another day. Only another day more.He didn't want to give up his happiness yet.  
Besides...  
what did it matter if Greg didn't like politicians? Most of the time, Mycroft didn't like them either.  
What did it matter if Greg couldn't stand rich people? Most of the time, Mycroft couldn't stand them either.  
What did it matter if Greg hated Mycroft Holmes? Many times, he hated the Iceman himself.  
At this point in the story, it was beginning to appear that it would be easier to clean up the mess by getting false papers, getting a job at the Department of Transportation, and starting a new life as Mike Smith, Greg's boyfriend.


	3. Chapter 3

The revelation, of course, came from Sherlock's hand.   
They were at the scene of a crime, one that for Greg was a nine but for the consulting detective was no more than a seven and a half. As Sherlock hovered around in the scene like a big bat, the DI began talking to the brunette's new roommate, John Watson, who recounted how he had been abducted by the infamous Mycroft Holmes, who had offered him a bribe to keep an eye on his little brother.  
\- You should have taken the money and then made up the most unlikely stories about Sherlock. On second thought, though, There are few things you can invent that can overcome reality. - Sherlock gave them a frowny look while the two men laughed.  
\- So he did it with you, too?  
\- Oh, no. I don't even know him. He sends his assistant, or he texts. I suppose he's too important to get mixed up with a mere Detective Inspector. He's above good and evil and knows the Yard was made to obey their wishes. You know his uncle tried to set me up with him? I was horrified. Luckily, Mike saved me.  
\- Can you stop talking about your imaginary boyfriend and focus on the case, Lestrade?  
Greg gave him a proud smile.  
Sherlock had been making erroneous conjectures about his partner for months, Greg still didn’t dare to think of Mike as her boyfriend, and not being able to figure anything out had caused him a frustration that turned into a childish tantrum every time he tried, for Greg's amusement.  
\- Come on, Sherlock, just because you can't make a single deduction about him doesn't mean he doesn't exist.  
\- Oh, come on, nobody can hide anything from me! No one except... Suddenly Sherlock was silent as his face showed a whole catalogue of facial expressions in a matter of seconds; first he squinted at Greg, then he opened his eyes wide, then he frowned, then he bit his lips as he looked at the street surveillance camera, then he looked at John and then he rose above the DI and sniffed his hair and neck, at the bewildered look of how many were around. Finally he walked away again with a puzzled, curious look, looking once more at the camera before smiling strangely.   
\- Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!  
\- Investigating. Come on, John, we're leaving!  
Not looking back and with his coat flapping behind him, the consulting detective strides away.  
\- Sherlock, wait! Have you found out anything?  
\- I think so... Oh, I think so...  
Greg watched them walk away, exasperated. Hours later he received a call from Sherlock, something unusual for the young man who was almost addicted to text messages. The DI responded, expecting anything but the laughter heard on the other end of the line. Finally Sherlock calmed down enough, just for a few seconds, to explain himself.  
\- God, Lestrade, I need you to explain to me what the term "meet someone" means to you. How can you not know my brother when you've been sleeping with him for months?  
\- Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?  
In the other side, Sherlock was laughing so loudly again that it was hard for him to breathe, a lot more talking.  
\- Mike. You beautiful, thoughtful Mike is... is Mycroft! My brother Mycroft! No wonder I couldn't deduce anything about him from you. Nobody can fool Sherlock Holmes, except Mycroft Holmes. Oh, Mike... this is great, just wait till I tell Mum, he never lets his call him that...


	4. Chapter 4

When he took the phone out of his ear, Sherlock had hung up a long time ago, although he could still hear him laughing in his head. He reminded himself that breathing was a vital function as he closed his jaw and fell back into his desk chair.  
As a detective, he knew not to shy away from any hypothesis.  
As a detective working with Sherlock Holmes, he knew that if the hypothesis was provided by Sherlock Holmes, it would surely be true, however outlandish it seemed.  
Like the man in love Gregory Lestrade, the first step was denial.  
It was impossible that his shy, loving and funny Mike, whose favourite place in the world was Greg's ramshackle couch, with his head resting on his shoulder, and whose eyes sparkled as if he had been offered the most luxurious of delicacies when the DI proposed to share an ice cream by eating directly from the container in front of the television was Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes would never have such worldly tastes, nor would he stoop to spend time with a mere Yard policeman who had to make superhuman efforts to finish high school. 

Why would he have put up with everything he said about him, if his sweet, understanding Mike was really Mycroft Holmes? 

'Well, why is that what Mycroft Holmes does, you idiot! Collect information about people and then he sink them!'  
Greg frowned, he didn't need his brain to insult him for not seeing the 'obvious'. Sherlock had already taken care of that, laughing at him while overlooking the fact that it had taken him months to figure it out himself.  
No, Mike, whose favorite hobby was stroking Greg's hair until he fell asleep on his chest couldn't be the Iceman. It just couldn't be.  
He tried to relate the image of his boyfriend, his drowsy smile when he woke up, his curly hair with the wet shower, his voice whispering verses of poems in French, his sarcastic and playful humour to his image he had of Mycroft Holmes and everything he thought he knew about him, everything they’d told you about him. Impossible.  
No, his Mike, who confessed that he had never seen Bambi why the idea of having to watch his mother being killed was too much for him, could not be the same man who ran the country in the shadows, in an automated way, and whose iron fist with the criminals was legendary.  
And yet...

As a detective homicide inspector he knew that anger didn't lead to anything good.  
As a homicide detective inspector he knew to take a deep breath, stay calm, and dialogue with the other party before making rash decisions.  
So the rational and professional part of his mind told him he should keep cool and not get carried away by his first outburst.  
But it was a part that spoke in a very low voice, so the anger came, with the force of a gale whipped up by a hurricane in the middle of a storm. Who did he think that posh idiot was to laugh at him? Because that's what he'd been doing. Making fun of him and his feelings. Even though it had all seemed so real. His concern for Greg's welfare, his joy every time they met, his constant care... You manipulative little liar!  
As usual, Mike, 'not Mike, Mycroft-bloody-Holmes,' he said to himself, did not answer at first, but let a few minutes pass before calling him back.  
\- Hello, Gregory. How was your day?  
Greg sighed mentally, reminding himself to be patient and to find out what the man's purpose was before sending him to hell. Well, at least he reminded himself, and it was the thought that counted, right?  
\- Well. One day... interesting. How about yours, Mike?- Greg noticed that his voice sounded tense, but at least he wasn't screaming. That counted as a triumph. - Or should I call you Mycroft!? Do you prefer Mr. Holmes!? How about you, lying son of a bitch!?  
The illusion of not screaming faded when Sally slammed open the door, with several agents behind her, looking at him with amazement and looking for the source of the altercation. Greg waved them off, sighing and trying to calm down. He was almost surprised to hear the voice on the other side of the phone.  
\- Gregory, what...?  
\- Stop. Are you or are you not Mycroft Holmes?  
\- Gregory, I...  
\- Yes or no!?  
After a brief silence, 'Mike's' voice sounded weak.  
\- Yes. Yes, I am. I'm sorry, Gregory, I...  
\- Are you sorry?! You're sorry?! No, you're sorry you mixed up someone's favorite white shirt with colored clothes! You're sorry you forgot an anniversary or were late for dinner! You lied to me! For six months I've been dating someone who doesn't exist!  
\- Gregory, I...  
\- When exactly were you planning on telling me? On our first anniversary? In front of the judge, at the registry office, on our wedding day!?  
\- Gregory...  
\- No, shut up! You know I hate lies. Why did you do it?! Speak!  
\- I could have sworn you just told me to shut up...  
\- Don't be funny and tell me what the hell you wanted from me!  
\- Excuse me? If I remember correctly, it was you who approached me in the first place.  
Greg had to acknowledge the man's ability to make a hissing voice sound like a threatening scream, raising the hairs on the back of his neck a little.  
\- Why didn't I know who you were!  
\- Do you recognize then that if you had known who I really was you would not have approached me?  
\- Yes! No! I would have, if I'd known what you looked like!  
\- You had a very clear idea of what I was like! You hated me! That's how we ended up together in the first place!  
\- Oh, no, you're not gonna blame me for your lies!  
\- Would you have stayed with me that night if you'd known who I was?  
\- No!  
\- Then... Do you regret meeting me?  
\- No!  
\- And yet we met because you were literally running away from me, because you hated the idea of meeting me.  
\- Yes!  
\- So you don't regret meeting me but you would never have agreed to meet me if you had known who I was?  
\- Yes! I mean, no! Look, don't confuse me, okay?  
\- This conversation is starting to make no sense, Gregory.  
\- Oh, excuse me, Mr. Iceman, if I'm not up to it. I'm not used type of conversations of ' I’ve slept with someone who pretended to be who he wasn’t for months '. Do you usually have this kind of conversation?  
\- No. I usually know who I'm talking to before I pounce on them in front of a hundred people.  
\- Oh, well, I didn't see you put up much of a fight either!  
\- I was doing you a favor.  
\- Oh, now dating me was a favor?!  
\- I did not say that! Look, we'd better calm down and talk later...  
\- And if not, what, Mr. Holmes!? Will you call my boss? Will you take me to an abandoned warehouse? I want to talk now! And don't tell me what to do!  
\- All right, Gregory, look I...  
\- No, look, you know what? I don't want to talk to you anymore right now!  
\- I just told you that...  
\- And I just told you not to tell me what to do! Don't insist, I don't feel like talking to you right now.  
\- All right, let's not talk then  
\- Oh, sure, why would you waste time explaining yourself to me, right?  
\- You just said that...  
\- I know what I said! And I don't want to talk right now!  
After hanging up and throwing a couple of documents on the floor to release the accumulated frustration, he came up with several more things to say to her, perfect and biting replies. But he didn't plan to call him back. He had dignity. No, he would stay there, filling out his paperwork, looking at the phone out of the corner of his eye only just once in a while, in case Mike/Mycroft called him...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week's chapter five was actually this one, sorry!

The black phone, thrown sharply against the wall before the Finnish Minister of Defence's secretary even finished speaking in a shaky voice, "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, the Minister is not... Today... Today they had to operate on his appendix dog, but when the animal is out of surgery he will call you back and...", he landed on the floor after a loud knock against the door.  
From his desk, Mycroft saw him fall, feeling suddenly empty. The ire that had accompanied him for the last few hours had dissipated with that sudden attack and he felt the tiredness and depression fall on him.   
After Greg's call, his first reaction was denial of the problem. He had tried to stay calm, refusing to believe it was so bad. He and Greg would talk later and find a way to fix everything. Because that's what Mycroft always did, solving problems.  
Mycroft Holmes was not the kind of person to panic during a crisis.   
Mycroft Holmes was exactly the kind of person you would call during a crisis. Rational, analytical and unemotional, there wasn't a problem for which he couldn't find at least three different kinds of solutions.   
No, he repeated himself trying not to hyperventilate, Greg would eventually calm down and Mycroft would manage to fix things. He would explain it to him and the DI would understand...  
' What exactly are you going to explain to him? That you wanted to show him you're not the manipulative bastard he thought you were by manipulating him into going out with you? Yes, it can't go wrong...'  
Cursing the little voice that kept whispering, he even thought of continuing to deny his identity. After all, we are who we think we are, right?   
For a brief moment, he had even fantasized about making Sherlock disappear and denying that his little brother had ever existed. Why, if he had been discovered, only Sherlock could have given him away. But he had promised Uncle Rudy to try not to kill Sherlock without a very good reason, and Mother not to do it at all. He was sure that for Uncle Rudy fratricide would be justified in this case, but Mum...  
To think of Sherlock, and of how Gregory always justified the spoiled brat, always giving him a second chance, when to Mycroft himself had always denied even the first, made his blood boil,   
his determination to remain calm was overtaken by outrage and wounded pride as he recalled the dinner he had prepared at Greg's house to celebrate the capture of a serial killer who had brought the Yard to its knees for weeks...

\- And then Sherlock started making deductions, sinking the culprit and his perfectly worked out alibi. We really wouldn't have made it without him. The kid's a fucking genius.  
Mycroft gave him a forced smile. He'd been hearing about his little brother's wonders for two hours and his patience was reaching its limit. He hadn't spent two days pushing forward meetings, papers and conferences so that he could have Friday night and the weekend off and be with Greg to spend them talking about the life, work and miracles of Sherlock Holmes. For that he could have called his mother.  
\- I thought he was a 'spoiled prick...'  
\- Oh, maybe I was wrong about him. He's a bit of an idiot, yes, but he's not that bad... He's not a manipulator like his big brother. I mean, if he's taught Sherlock that he can do whatever he wants and there won't be any consequences, the poor boy not to blame... Oh, that's good luck!  
Mycroft cleaned up the mess he had caused by throwing the glass of wine on the tablecloth, thanking the DI couldn’t see his face.  
\- The "poor boy" is twenty-four years old, Greg! Maybe you could start holding him accountable for his actions, instead of blaming everything on his older brother!

Mycroft was cleaning the tablecloth so furiously that he thought he could start to see the wood underneath. Noticing the DI's gaze on him, he stopped mistreating the tablecloth to focus on his food.  
\- You seem upset about something...  
\- I'm not upset! I just think it’s funny that you hate someone you don’t know just because you imagine he’s a smug asshole and and you are so delighted with someone who has proven to be a smug asshole.   
\- Mycroft Holmes? The same guy who every time he takes a case from us he sends us coffee and doughnuts, like we're bums who can be bribed with knickknacks? The one who’s too important to pick up the phone and talk to me but he think I don’t have anything better to do than be of receiving his text messages about Sherlock?   
That Mycroft Holmes? You can't be serious! Sherlock's at least looking to catch the guilty and not afraid of hard work. Yeah, the kid's got issues. But maybe if his big brother wasn't so busy being the all-powerful bureaucrat who sends his henchmen to meddle in everything while he enjoys his millionaires' finery and he pays more attention to his brother it maybe... Has the chicken offended you in any way?  
Mycroft looked up briefly to find Greg's amused, bewildered gaze, before looking back at his plate, where what had been a chicken breast was now somewhere in between shredded chicken and chicken porridge.  
He didn't even realize how angry he was as he cut it up without actually seeing it. Taking a deep breath he composed a gentle smile.  
\- My throat hurts a little, actually.I'm having a little trouble swallowing...  
Mycroft's discomfort evaporated when the Holmes brothers' subject fell into immediate oblivion, and a solicitous and affectionate Greg became concerned about his condition, taking care of him and pampering him afterwards all weekend. He didn't even mind eating nothing but mashed potatoes and soup, "so as not to further damage you sore throat" until the following Monday, out of Gregory's sight.  
With the memory of that night, and with the angry cries of the DI still echoing in his mind, the indignation turned to anger. Had he lied? Of course! But Gregory himself had provoked that lie, wanting to present him as someone he was not in the first place. So what right did he have to demand honesty? If Gregory had told him that he was avoiding Mycroft Holmes before spending the night talking to him, Mycroft would have simply smiled and walked away before it was too late, before he was fascinated by the DI.   
Gregory had started this, not him. 

The anger made him stop thinking about how he could fix things with the DI, deciding to channel his energies into work, his brain started to work at full capacity, focused on his work, making decisions that he had been putting off for days until he could wrap them up in diplomacy. After all, it was said, a busy mind misses no one. And he was more than willing not to miss anyone, to put aside all feeling and be, more than ever, the Iceman.   
Unfortunately, no one seemed to be up for the task of cooperating today and after a brief, and in his opinion fruitful, video call to three with his American and Russian colleagues, and a couple of internal memos, none of his calls were being answered, his requests for reports went unanswered, suddenly there were no documents to review, no terrorists to arrest, no prime ministers or intelligence chiefs to attend to. Everything that had needed his "urgent attention" in the morning suddenly seemed not to need his attention or to be urgent.   
'Of course, who would want to talk to a guy who to get someone to notice him has to pretend to be someone else in the first place? You are so pathetic.'  
Mycroft squeezed the pen in his hand, briefly wondering if stabbing him in his temporal lobe would   
he'd kill and silence the damn voice in his head once and for all.  
In the silence of his office he saw what his life would be like from then on. Gregory would go on, without him. Soon, Mike would be just a bad memory, Mycroft would still be the bastard Greg had always thought he was. The Iceman would continue, as always, to fulfill his duties as a robot, always delaying the time to return to a cold, lonely, empty house.   
Yes, Mycroft had been wrong. He had been so busy just being happy, having a life beyond his duties, allowing himself to think for once about being, with Greg, not what others expected him to be but who he wanted to be, having fun while running away from his own house dodging his security team to become Greg's Mike that he didn't really think about the possibility of losing everything.   
It was inconceivable that so much security and so much happiness just vanished into thin air.   
And now it had happened.  
The nostalgia for what he had lost hit him hard, making him close his eyes. There was never anyone important in his life before Greg, and there wouldn’t be any later.   
The red phone at the other end of the table, oblivious to the fate of his black twin brother, began to ring, making him hold his breath as he looked at it apprehensively.   
\- No, please, not you, not now.


	6. Chapter 6

After two hours of signing reports without even reading them, anger had gone, and depression had appeared: disappointment at deception, sadness at lost love, disillusionment at plans that would never be fulfilled, nostalgia for what he would never have again, the bitterness of being unable to have a normal relationship...  
Before continuing to sink into self-flagellation and the stages of grief, Greg did what every Yard agent did in cases of emotional despair: call Bart’s and ask for the autopsy list scheduled for the afternoon.  
Molly, comprehensive and loyal as ever, exhibited all the necessary emotions at the precise moment of the narrative: she was happy with her visit, worried about her state of mind, happy when he told her about the wonderful man he had met, delighted when he told him how well they fit together and outraged when she learned of the false identity of the man in question and his fake relationship. All in the right order. Just as Greg expected. What he didn’t expect was the confusing expression the young coroner later adopted.  
\- Really what he’ve done is horrible, but... - said Molly as she placed Mr.Stephans' brain on the cutting board and began to cut into thick slices. - Why would he? Yes, we’ve already agreed that the man is a monster, but....  
Greg looked at her, surprised by the change of direction in the conversation. Molly acquired a thoughtful air as she cut without looking at the organ in front of her.  
\- But what?  
\- I mean, why? there’s nothing about you that he might want and you career not has been affected, he just...  
\- Molly, I think you’re starting to spend too much time with Sherlock. Can you stop talking in riddles?  
\- Let’s see: You swooped in on a complete, attractive, unknown man and asked for his help.  
\- Yes.  
\- And the unknown attractiveness, not knowing exactly what he was helping you with, came to your rescue.  
\- Yes.  
\- And then you spent a lovely evening together.  
\- Yes.  
\- So you asked her out on a date, saying you’d love to get to know him better. Right after you told him you were running from a guy you didn’t know at all, who you hated only because of what you’d heard about him, called Mycroft Holmes.  
\- Yes.  
\- Well. So you started a relationship, he took care of you when you were sick, he treated you with respect and affection, you spent as much time together as possible and he was sympathetic when  
you let off steam by complaining about Sherlock and, above all, showing your animosity for Mycroft Holmes, symbol of all the evils that afflict the world. He It made you happier than you had been in years, hiding his identity from you. Hiding from you that he was, in fact, the man you despised.  
\- Yes. That's exactly what I explained to you.  
\- Aha... but why would he do that? No offense, Greg, you’re a great guy, but not someone who seems to have a horrible secret to keep safe and who can be blackmailed. According to Sherlock, his brother has no time for anything other than watching and tormenting others. Six months seems like a long time to prepare revenge for your insults. And from what you’ve told me, it doesn’t look like "torture you" is what he’ve been doing, unless sadomasochism is part of your usual practices. So why would a proud man who lacks feelings and who doesn’t move a muscle if it’s not to make a profit he'd pretend to be someone he'm not really so he can be with you? Why would he pretend to feel something he doesn’t feel for months when with a single phone call he could banish you to the most boring town in England, or put you in traffic control? - asked the coroner, finishing to cut to pieces the brain of Mr. Stephen's brain.  
\- I... Well, maybe I...  
\- Is it possible that you've been jumping to conclusions, again? Greg was quiet for a few minutes, looking at the brain chopped up in front of him, wondering if his own would look the same inside his head.  
\- God, he... it’s possible that he...  
\- What he love you? Yeah.  
\- And I... All this time, I...  
\- Yes.  
\- And when Sherlock told me... I...  
\- Yes.  
\- You know, seen like that I seem to have been...  
\- A bit of an idiot with Mike? Yes.- said Molly with a calm and cheerful smile as she shoved the chopped brain into a blender and began to blender.


End file.
